Prodigal's Return. James Axler

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СКАЧАТЬ lead to too much thought. And my mind’s no place to wander on a holiday—not without my father in my life.

      “Since you’re not arguing, it’s corn.” The two plates are dressed as though our dinner is formal, but right here—the apartment I grew up in—it’s always been casual. “Dinner’s on!”

      I set the food down and light a few candles to make this evening’s meal ambient. With a little jazz in the background, reminding me of my father’s favorite choice of music, I almost feel at home again. Though I’ve been back in the city for nearly a week, I have yet to unpack most of my things from Virginia and transform my teenage-style bedroom into one that will represent who I am now.

      I’m itching to rediscover the neighborhood and absorb all the changes Chelsea has been through over the years. It was more than four years ago when I ventured off to Michigan to pursue my degree, and then went to Quantico for training. But now that I’m back to my native grounds, I want to dig my heels in deep and feel at home again.

      It’ll be no small feat, considering that the last time I lived here my father was alive. Getting past the hurt and anger will not be easy, especially surrounded by constant reminders of his existence. But I know he would have wanted me to live my life to the fullest. I’m going to do all I can to live up to his reputation and make him proud. Wherever he is.

      Taking my seat, I hear the familiar footsteps approach. Welcoming my dinner partner, I return focus to the holiday meal. “My, you’re a mighty fine fella. Thanks for joining me.”

      Muddy lifts his heavy body to the two-seater dining room table and I smooth down his wrinkles. The drool starts from his bloodhound folds, but I don’t mind. It’s in his nature. And he’s been the best damn friend I’ve ever had.

      Maybe this isn’t your typical family meal for a holiday, but I’ve never lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait. Since Dad… Well, the family’s not a big unit where I come from, so I make do with what and who I have.

      As soon as I get settled, I’ll be insisting Grandma David pack her things and move home from Detroit. I know returning to NYC will be painful, with so many reminders of what happened to my father within a stone’s throw. But if I can keep that extra connection to him in any way possible, I will. Reuniting her to the city, now that I’m back, has to help in the healing process.

      Hopefully, for both of us.

      “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

      “How long has it been since your last confession?”

      With time to spare before my next shift, I’ve detoured to Gramercy Park for a moment of family nostalgia. I peer through the mesh window and hold up a plate of leftovers, still warm from the oven. “Ah, hell if I know. You hungry?”

      “Angie! I did not see you so well.”

      Uncle Simon lets himself out into the open, widening his arms to grasp me in a hug. Forget the confession; the months have drifted by quickly since I last saw my father’s brother. He and my grandmother are my only living relatives and I intend to keep closer contact with my uncle, now that I’m back in New York.

      “I brought you some turkey—slightly burned—and some fixings,” I say, handing him the container. “I figured you’d be here all night, blessing this and that for the holiday, but heck, even us solos need to eat, right?”

      “Ah well, that’s very fine of you to think of an old man. I am so sorry I could not join you at the apartment, but you know duty calls.” His hands wave about, gesturing to the leftover evidence of the Gramercy Park holiday Mass. Between offering blessings and sharing prayers, he would have had his hands full, I know.

      “No, I understand. I’m not really settled in yet, so I’d only embarrass myself with the mess I’ve made. I’ll have you over real soon, though, okay?”

      Simon nods his head as he leads me to take a seat beside him on a pew, and I let him refamiliarize himself with his niece. I have to do the same with him, as it’s been way too long. As far as I can tell, though, this man has changed very little. He’s thin, lanky and slightly hunched. His skin is pale and his features show his age, but I know his heart is still large with love.

      “Your hair has grown long, I see.” Simon’s hand extends along my cheek, brushing thin fingers through my unruly hair and tucking the strands behind my ear. My current shoulder-length locks are usually pulled back into some makeshift do, but tonight they hang loosely.

      The last time Simon would have seen me, at my father’s funeral in July, my hair would have been cropped a bit shorter, making it easier to take care of during long days of training in Quantico. If I hadn’t been smack-dab in the middle of starting my career as an agent with the FBI—engulfed in the tenth week of training—I wouldn’t have left my uncle’s side so soon.

      It still stings that I had to make that choice. With the Bureau being so competitive, I didn’t have much option but to promptly return to Quantico. Had I dropped out of the sixteen-week training program, there would be slim chance I could get back in, despite my top-notch proficiency levels.

      “Angie, tell me. What day is it?”

      I know this game all too well. It started when I was barely able to speak English, let alone Latin. “Dies Iovis,” I say, pleasing the frail man.

      “Yes! It is Thursday. Oh, good for you, for keeping it up. You study hard?”

      “When I can.”

      Although I can’t use Latin on an everyday basis, my language skills have come in handy from time to time. Especially since it was my exceptional scoring on the Foreign Language Proficiency tests that moved me into the Special Agent training program. It also proved beneficial in third year for my internship with the FBI’s National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime.

      NCAVC likes to see well-rounded agents in the field, and I’m willing to use any skill I have to help my goal of becoming a profiler, even if it takes ten years to get into their elite Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. After all, my father worked with NCAVC for a time, and he was so honored when I decided to follow in his career path. His death just makes me want it more.

      Simon studies my features and places a finger under my chin, bringing my eyes up to meet his. “You work so hard, my sweet. I can see that.”

      A small smile forces its way across my lips. “You know how it is. Never a dull moment.”

      Simon rests a palm on my shoulder and he looks at me, his blue-gray eyes growing soft with love and encouragement. “I know it’s difficult for you, Angela. Your father, he was a good man. Such a strong man. He didn’t deserve it. But you cannot feel guilty about not being here, you understand? Your father would be so proud of you.”

      “I know,” I say, but keep my eyes low while trying not to dwell on the pain. I hate that my father was killed in the line of duty, but I’m even more angered that his death happened during my training. I know my father would be proud of me, but sometimes I wonder whether, if I hadn’t left the city, our lives would’ve been different. If maybe he would still be alive.

      “You are a wonderful, caring, smart girl, Angie. And a Special Agent! You couldn’t have made your father any happier.”

      “I just wish… I just wish I had more time with him, ya know? After leaving for college, stopping by for holidays and special СКАЧАТЬ